De-dissolution
by rookanga
Summary: The past fifty-six years have been rough for France and Spain. First Prussia dies, then they have a huge falling out, and then they hesitantly make up. Now, in 2003, they try to clone a Pyrenean ibex. But is France really in it for the good of science? Or is he still housing the ghost of Prussia? Rated T for character death. Country names used. NO GHOSTS INVOLVED


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or Guy de Maupassant.**

1947

Twenty-nine years. It had been twenty-nine years since that day, the first that France, Spain, and Prussia had spent time together as friends since the beginning of the Great War.

"Are you alright, Prussia?" France had asked. "You look a little pale."

"It's nothing," Prussia had reassured him with a smile. "Just what's left after losing a war."

And though France would regret it to the end of time, that reply satisfied him. He knew what it was like to lose a war. But he'd always felt he should have known, should have _seen_. If he had, maybe it would be different.

Spain came up next to France, putting a hand on the blonde's shoulder. It was an act designed to comfort, France knew, but he wasn't comforted. Spain didn't understand. Even though the three of them were the Bad Friends Trio, it had always been Prussia and France, with Spain as the unknowing third wheel.

He'd never said this to Spain, of course. It would only serve to hurt his feelings and send him to Romano. Spain really was a sweetheart. France truly liked him. But he'd always felt that if it were gym class, and they were assigned to pair up, it would be he and Prussia. Call it cruel, but that's how France felt.

Prussia, admittedly, was a lot better at hiding this from Spain than France was, almost to the point that France could say he was oblivious or unwilling to accept his true feelings.

1952

France stared at the ground. Five years and he was still mourning for Prussia. That was what friends did. France would never stop grieving. He'd sworn as much the day of Prussia's funeral.

He tensed at the sound of a cheerful Spanish voice chattering on with his housekeeper, Mireille. Hot anger, the kind that brought with it tears, crept its way through France's stomach and up through his throat. Just more proof that Spain had never belonged.

"_Amigo_, come on. Prussia wouldn't want you to mope for him like this. He'd want you to pull pranks like ever. You can pull pranks in his memory."

France stepped quickly away from Spain, turning to face him. "What the hell do you know, _salaud_? You know what Prussia and I thought? We thought you weren't one of us. Because you're not. You never were and you never will be!" His crazed shouts continued, but France was hardly aware of what he was saying. All he knew was that it must have been hurtful, because tears were making Spain's big green eyes blur.

Spain spun and ran out of the house, out of Paris, out of France. He didn't go running to Romano. He just went home, curled up under a pile of blankets, and cried until he was forced to get up due to dehydration.

1975

France was sitting at an outdoor café, playing nervously with his napkin. Spain was late, and he needed sugar. He ordered a _diabolo menthe_ and his foot began to tap.

Really, France wasn't a terribly punctual country, but this was the first non-political contact he and Spain had had since France had yelled at him. He thought that was reason enough to be on time. Apparently Spain was sticking to his usual idea of on time, and two and a half hours later, still wasn't present.

Finally France saw Spain coming up the street towards him, the smile France had come to expect on him strangely absent. He stood to meet him.

"I'm glad you came," France began, more timid than usual.

"I almost didn't," Spain replied coldly, before his attitude changed dramatically. "You look better."

"I feel better," France replied simply. "Yesterday I sexually harassed Britain for the first time in years. It felt great!"

"Great…" Spain replied.

They sat down together, and Spain ordered his coffee black. Previously Spain had taken his with cream and sugar. What had happened?

France tried to engage Spain in conversation, to which he was wholly uninterested, until finally he held his hand up, palm facing France, and said, "Let's just talk about what we're here to talk about."

"_Je suis d'accord_," France agreed quickly.

"I miss you," Spain admitted. "I miss when we friends. But to be frank, you ruined that. I'm not sure I can ever see you the same way again. Your words hurt me, France. I don't know if we can ever get back what we once had…which I guess meant more to me than it did to you."

France looked down, _diabolo_ forgotten. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to tell you I didn't mean what I said, because I did. But Prussia never felt that way."

"I know." Spain said. "It took me a while, but I know."

"And you were right," France continued. "About Prussia. It's not what he would've wanted. I finally know that.

"I guess I didn't know us three the way I thought I did. I guess that makes me a bad friend."

"Well, to be fair, we were the _Bad_ Friends Trio."

France looked up. A trace of that old Spain smile was on Spain's lips. "I know you don't think our friendship can be repaired. I don't know if it can either. But would you be willing to try?"

"_Bien s__ûr_," Spain said.

"_Gracias_," France replied. He was not so shocked when he began to cry. He had Spain back. That was what mattered. "_Lo siento_."

"France," Spain said, a worried tone in voice, "are you crying? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say anything wrong."

"You did nothing wrong," France said.

1999

"Monsieur France!"

France looked up from _Le Monde_ to see his advisor, Jean. At least that was his job description. But Jean was more of a friend to France now, and did more gossiping than advising now.

"What's the matter, Jean?"

"They've found one last _bucardo_!"

"A _bucardo_?"

The Pyrenean ibex had lived on the Pyrenées for what felt like forever to France, but ten years ago Spain had informed him that there were only about twelve living _bucardo_ left.

"The last one! Señor Spain put a tracking device on it. I thought you'd want to know, since you were so upset to hear that there were so few left. This isn't good news, but I thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you, Jean," France said. "Let me know what happens to her."

2000

A soft knock came on France's door.

"Come in!" he called.

In walked Jean, followed by a somber Spain.

"What's wrong?" France asked. "Romano hasn't finally used that pent-up anger and shot himself, has he? Oh, I'm so sorry, Spain."

"What?" said Spain.

"That wasn't it?" France thought for a moment. "I have no more guesses."

"The last _bucardo_ died today," Jean said.

France didn't know why he felt so helpless and angry. It was only an animal, after all. But he did feel that way. "What?"

"We called her Celia," Spain said, almost to himself.

That was the exact opposite of what France wanted to hear. He wanted to depersonalize the little _bucardo_, not further his attachment to her. Celia…such a pretty name for a pretty animal.

France sank down in his chair. "Thank you for telling me."

Jean and Spain exchanged worried looks.

"I'm sorry."

France couldn't have told you whether it was Spain who said the words or Jean, or both of them. His head was pounding from the stress of trying to keep his emotions in.

2003

The radio was on, playing soft music, the room was warm, a book was in his hands, the armchair was thick and plushy, and Spain was on the other side of the lamp table. The general feeling was companionable. It was just like 1935.

Except, of course, for the lack of Prussia.

But France pushed that aside and focused on Guy de Maupassant. Until Spain broke the silence and said, "Remember Celia?"

"Celia?" France was faking. He remembered Celia.

"The little _bucardo_?" Spain prompted.

"Oh, yes. Celia." Spain gave him a suspicious look but didn't dwell on it.

"Some of my scientists want to clone her."

"Like Dolly the sheep?"

"Yes, but this could theoretically bring her species back from extinction."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you would want to know. You seemed so upset over her death. And I feel guilty. We've been trying for a few years now, and I haven't told you. Also I wanted a second opinion."

"About what?"

"Whether we should keep going with the cloning process."

"Of course you should!" Spain looked up at France's sudden exuberance.

"Okay…but think of the risks, France. It's very uncertain; it might not work. And even if it does, and the _bucardo_ comes back, what could be the potential effect on the wildlife?"

"It's only been three years, Spain. I'm sure all the little Pyrenean animals will be okay."

Spain chewed his lip. "Is it ethical?"

"How is it not ethical to save a species?"

Spain sighed. "You're right. This is very exciting, and would move science forward if it were to work."

"Exactly!"

"Remember, France, it might not work."

"Of course it will work!" France jumped out of his chair. "In fact, I'd like to help you."

"She's having trouble breathing!" Spain shouted as his team of hot-shot doctor-scientists rushed around trying to help the little thing. "Come on, Cloney. You can make it."

France turned away, unable to watch any longer. He'd put so much hope into this. So much hope, only to have it all torn and ripped away by inadequate resources, medicine, something.

Spain was still yelling somewhere, but it sounded so far away, even though it was barely two meters away from France. _Stop. Just shut up. She–it –isn't going to live._

The sight of Celia's clone had rocked France. To think that anything could be so helpless…it hurt him. A physical blow, like he felt when his people were hurt.

The shouting ceased. "France? France?"

_Go away. Please._

"France. I'm–I–"

_Don't say it._

"She died, France."

A broken cry escaped France's lips, sounding twisted and hurt, how he would imagine the clone would have felt, if it'd had a chance to make sounds. A few people milled about, as if not knowing what to do with themselves now that their work had reached the height of its excitement and ended in the span of ten minutes.

"Hey, France. Don't cry. We knew there was a good chance it wouldn't work, right? It's all part of life, yeah? We'll try again. It will be okay."

"No it won't!" France's outburst startled himself, yet Spain didn't seem surprised in the least, instead just sad. "Nothing will be okay! This clone –this clone was my last hope!"

"I know, France."

"You _don't _know! You were the one that did this, anyway! How could you? How could you?"

"What did you hope for France? What were the hopes riding on Celia's clone?" Spain sounded as if he already knew the answer.

France gripped Spain's shirt. "I wanted–"

"What did you want?"

"I thought maybe…I thought maybe if we could bring a species back, we could bring someone else back."

"Yes? Who is the someone you wanted to bring back?"

France didn't answer, exactly. Instead he cried quietly into Spain's shirt and whispered, "I miss him so much."

"Me too."

"You were gone, Spain. I thought I was going to lose you too. Because of what I said."

"I'm sorry."

"I thought we could bring back Prussia."

"It wouldn't have happened," Spain whispered. "We don't work like that."

France continued to cry. "He's never coming back."

The death of Celia's clone had affected France more than anyone could know. A few months after the failed cloning, France still felt the hollowness in the pit of his stomach that he'd felt on that day.

France approached Prussia's grave, Spain trailing behind him.

"Hello, Prussia," France said hesitantly. He looked at Spain, who nodded encouragingly.

"You're dead," France continued. "I miss you. I wish you were here."

France knelt down in the grass. "Spain tried to clone this little animal. _Tr__ès stupide, non_? You would have made fun of him if you were here. It would have been funny, I bet. He's so much fun to tease. I'm ashamed to say I haven't done it much since you died.

"Goodbye, Prussia. I love you." France got up and turned to leave.

"Ready to go?" Spain asked.

"Yes."

Spain fell in next to France. "I am very offended by what you said to Prussia about me."

"Well, it's true."

"I am not fun to tease!"

"I bet Prussia would say otherwise! Oh hon hon hon!"

**A/N: Spain is so well adjusted.**

** So I read this article in last month's Nation Geographic about cloning, and it talked about French and Spanish scientists trying to clone a Pyrenean ibex called Celia. I was like, "Oh, hey, France and Spain! I wonder where Prussia is." So then I was like, "I wonder why France and Spain would want to clone animals. It doesn't really seem up their alleys." And then this thing happened.**

** Review please!**


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